


Not Enough Hours in a Day

by discooperator



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Gen, it's one joke but i feel like it needs a tag, it's too Odd to not tag, selfcest mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 15:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19814791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discooperator/pseuds/discooperator
Summary: Doctor Sung clones himself because he thinks he has too much on his plate and not enough… him. The idea of six Sungs scrambling around doesn't sit well with the rest of the band, so clone-wrangling shenanigans ensue.





	Not Enough Hours in a Day

Twenty four hours in a day. Three hundred sixty five days in a year, give or take. Seventy or eighty-something years in the average human lifespan. Doctor Sung had lived for tens of thousands of human lifespans, and would live for millions more.

In the grand scheme of his life, he hadn’t even spent a notable amount of time on Earth yet, and probably wouldn’t, if things didn’t turn around fast.

But at the end of the (regrettably short) day, he was just one guy with one brain and two hands, and there weren’t enough hours in the day for all the things he wanted to do, places he wanted to go, people he wanted to meet, music he wanted to make, experiments he wanted to perform.

Unless…

Unless he _wasn’t_ just one guy.

One project of his had been literally and metaphorically put on ice centuries ago, during a time when it might have been a viable way to save a dying race. The news that his effort was in vain was a huge blow; it’s hard knowing that one is inevitably going to be the last living relic of an ancient civilization. In the end, when he left for greener pastures, a hopeful sparkle in his eye, he kept the data, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it could be useful in the future. 

All things considered, it wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be to shoo Havve out of the shed so he could work on his “super secret special project, no Havve Hogans allowed.” “A month is all I need, promise,” he said, fingers crossed behind his back, and the robot had no reason to argue, this was normal behavior for Sung, so he did as he was told.

One month turned into three, Sung wasn’t a microbiologist or geneticist after all, those subjects bored him to tears, and the success rate was astronomically low for what he was attempting. There was first the matter of obtaining DNA, and getting his own was easy, of course, but it needed to be coupled with cells close in structure to his own. The closest and most widely available were, obviously, human cells, which he obtained… questionably. Those were matters he always tried to forget immediately after they happened. Then came all the genetic transferring that he also hardly remembered; it was so tedious and nerve wracking and left him high-strung for hours after the process was over. And finally, there was the growth period, expedited by large glass pods and a liquid that looked kind of like chicken broth, and he was still so exhausted from everything else that he didn’t care what the fuck it was or what was in it or where his shipment came from, as long as it worked. He would hammer out the details for his notes later.

By the end of the third month, he had five successes.

The beings, floating peacefully in their soup-filled pods, looked perfectly identical to him.

He was almost scared to remove the first one, afraid that taking it… him… out of the life-sustaining, development-stimulating environment would kill him, and he would have to hope the same fate would not befall the other four. 

Sung sighed, swallowed his fear, took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and cracked open the first pod. The pods were standing upright, the liquid inside spilling onto the concrete floor and the clone falling limply into Sung’s waiting arms. Warm, naked, slippery. He almost let the clone fall to the floor, partially out of shock and partially because he was just so damn slick. And surprisingly heavy. 

_Am I really this dense?_ He thought as he staggered slightly, adjusting the weight of the limp body in his arms. Standing there, holding his creation, this odd, new copy of himself, he felt overwhelmingly vulnerable. Even more sobering was the moment when the clone suddenly became aware, like waking up from a nap, and opened his eye to stare foggily up at Sung, the original Sung.

“I did it,” he whispered, completely in awe.

“Come again?” the clone asked, perplexed, in a perfect, genuine Doctor Sung voice.

“I actually fuckin’ did it,” Sung repeated, less in awe and more in confirmation. The clone continued to be mildly confused, until he found his footing, looked around, and realized there were four more of him still floating in God-knows-what.

Sung began explaining his great scientific accomplishment as he handed his wet clone a towel, then some clothes, then started cracking open the second pod. When that clone became conscious he had to repeat the process, and his explanation. Like the silly little bastard he was, he continued to restart his tale of biological prowess as each clone came out of his respective pod, not even thinking of waiting until they were all aware, dry, and not standing nude or partially-clothed in a shed that was suddenly becoming very crowded.

Looking around, Doctor Sung wanted to cheer because he was overjoyed, cry because he didn’t want to scare the clones by yelling, and blush because seeing himself from an outside perspective was very eye-opening, in several aspects.

Having accomplished what he had set out to do, the good Doctor was, for a short while, incredibly pleased with himself, now in six different forms, until he realized that he had no goddamn idea how he was going to break the news to his bandmates that he now dramatically outnumbered them. He asked the clones to help him assess the situation, figuring that if they shared his knowledge of the world they would all be on roughly the same page, but when two of the clones suggested being straightforward with his friends, he began to question their reasoning, and then his own.

Ultimately, Sung decided it would be best for everyone if the other Sungs were discovered organically. They would remain hidden in plain sight until their existence was questioned. Naturally, there was some dispute and large amount of self-doubt, but in the end it was decided that the clones would leave the backyard shed and enter the house one by one over the course of a couple hours, then retreat immediately to Sung’s room, where they would establish a loose routine of coming and going to ensure that the unusual number of Sungs was not discovered right off the bat.

And so, just like that, Doctor Sung’s clone armada was released into the world, poised to wreak havoc.

* * *

Four days.

Four whole days had somehow passed without incident, and Sung was starting to get antsy. His own grand plan was making him terribly nervous, worrying that he was going to be confronted about the clones at any minute, and with the clones speeding up his daily routine exponentially, he was left with plenty of free time to ruminate on his decisions. He hid it well, though. He thought he hid everything well until confronted. To him, there was nothing to worry about as long as no one knew.

But this wasn’t just him, this was six of him, and the clones were starting to get more comfortable with their existence. They were getting bold. They were being themselves. They would leave when they found something they wanted to do, talk to Meouch, Havve, or Phobos when they wanted to talk, and all their scuttling around made things difficult when one of his bandmates would bring up a thread of conversation they supposedly had earlier that Sung now had no memory of, or random items would appear around the house that he had supposedly bought.

Not to mention, it was also very cramped in his room, especially during the night.

The afternoon of day four, he was rummaging around the kitchen in search of a light snack, taking a much-needed break from cleaning the backyard shed. Havve was still out there, standing impatiently in the bushes, waiting to reoccupy his half of the space. Phobos was sleeping, probably with the windows wide open. He liked to sun himself like a lizard sometimes. Meouch was on the couch, near ready to wrestle a controller that kept pausing whatever game he was playing every 5 or so seconds. Most of the clones were out of the house. One was occupying his room, but he wasn’t expected to be an issue.

“Hey, Doc?” Meouch called from the couch, smacking the controller with his hand, then against his thigh. Dead. The charger out of reach. Too lazy to move. 

“Yeah?” Sung responded from the kitchen, peering over his shoulder. 

“Yeah?” Sung responded again, yelling from his room this time. 

“Could you bring me the—“ Meouch stopped, the two answers from opposite ends of the house registering. He amended himself, curious and confused and fearing for his sanity, “Could you come here for a second?”

The Sung in the kitchen, the one who had answered him first, stepped into the room, crossing his arms, trying to hide the tightness in his voice. “Need something?” 

“Wait a second…”

Another Sung emerged from the hallway, poking his head around the corner into the room. “Yeah?” he asked, almost gingerly, “You wanted something?”

The first Sung glanced at the second, and then they both stared at Meouch, waiting.

“Sung,” Meouch started, not sure which Sung to look at, “Who’s this?”

The Sung from the kitchen, the original, not that Meouch could tell the difference, glanced toward the clone and replied, calm as can be, “Oh! That’s Jeffery.” 

Underneath the calm facade was a tsunami of panic, drowning him. There was absolutely no way he could get out of explaining himself, but he could make the process as difficult for everyone else involved as possible.

“Jeffery?”

“Yes! He’s, um, a friend!”

Meouch had never been less convinced of anything in his life, and for a solid two years he was duped into believing Phobos could photosynthesize. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

The three continued to glance between each other for what felt like, to Sung, an eternity, which was no small feat. “Jeffery” was also beginning to look nervous, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. 

Sung tried to hold his ground, but Meouch was staring at him like a disappointed parent, and it was eating away at his composure. As a last resort, with a layer of sarcasm in his voice, he asked, “What does he look like to you?”

The clone, suddenly emboldened, threw in his two cents. “Yeah, what do I look like?”

Meouch raised an eyebrow, not sure how to respond. They looked exactly the same. Carbon-copies, as far as he could tell. Not a single difference aside from their shirts and shorts having different patterns. There was bullshit afoot, and he was not putting up with it. “I think I need a second opinion,” he said, before yelling for Phobos to get his ass out of bed and “come fucking look at this weird shit.”

It took a minute, but Lord Phobos soon appeared in the hallway, looking disheveled and rubbing his eyes, to look at the weird shit. The expression on his face said it all. He was squinting, jaw slack, eyebrows furrowed. He was positive he was seeing double.

“ _Are there…?_ ”

“Two of him? Yeah, I thought so. He’s trying to pass this other Doc off as a friend.” Meouch nodded at the clone, who Phobos was standing right next to.

“ _You mean this isn’t the real one?_ ”

This very nearly broke Meouch. “I-- Maybe? I don’t think he is.” Gesturing at the original Sung, he continued, “This one told me that one is named Jeffery.”

At that moment, Havve entered from the backyard, vocalizer turned up to its second-highest setting. “DOCTOR, PLEASE EXPLAIN THE UNKNOWN DRYING LIQUID AND THE BIZARRE GLASS CASES STREWN ABOUT OUR WORKSTATION.” 

The other four practically leapt out of their skin as they whirled around to stare at the robot, who, upon noticing there was an extra face, and that extra face belonged to a second Sung, simply said, “OH. THERE IS ANOTHER ONE.” 

“Doc, you gotta tell us what’s going on,” Meouch firmly pleaded.

Sung was trapped, with no way out but the cold, hard truth. No twisting words or sugarcoating severities or hiding tidbits of information to be uncovered and further explained away later. He looked like a deer in headlights, and felt like everyone in the room was against him. Eye darting around, he scrambled for words, a grandiose explanation, but none were present at the moment. 

So instead, taking cues from Havve, his closest and most understanding-- no, complacent-- friend, he went the deadpan, straightforward route.

“Clones.”

“As in more than one?” Meouch asked slowly, carefully. Phobos accompanied the question with a confused glare, noting that Meouch’s temper was rising with his befuddlement.

“Why would I make just one?” Sung asked, matter-of-factly, still trying to hide how tense he felt.

“How many of you are running around, then?” Meouch questioned, glancing rapidly back and forth between Sung and the other Sung, obviously baffled.

“Um, well…” The nail in the coffin, no way around it, no idea what would happen next. “Six.”

“WHY?” Emotions reaching a boiling point, he raised his voice to a volume that was threatening to rival Havve’s deadpan, robotic yelling.

“Why what?”

“WHY DID YOU THINK THERE NEEDED TO BE SIX OF YOU?” 

Sung let out a nervous huff. “Would you like the short explanation or the long one?”

“DID YOU THINK WE WOULD NOT NOTICE?” Havve asked, not to be outdone by a pissed cat, who promptly started to calm down and leave the interrogation to the professional.

“I-- I don’t know? Maybe not for a while?”

“IDIOT.” 

Sung wanted to be offended, or at least feign offense to try to save a little face, maybe at the absolute bare minimum put his hand up to his chest and gasp like an insulted soccer mom, but in the end, Havve was right. Later, he would probably sit Sung down and pick his brain; he always managed to come up with the most complex questions. He liked to joke that Havve just enjoyed listening to him talk, and then Havve would get all uppity and deny it, even though they both knew perfectly well it really was one of the robot’s few pleasures in his miserable life. 

He was just glad that, right now, Havve had only one expression, because his words were cutting deeper than usual and Sung really, _really_ didn’t want to think his best friend was disappointed in him. 

Phobos, trying to placate the situation, posed the question more gently. _“_ _What on Earth made you think of cloning yourself?_ ”

Sung had moved to the couch, leaving a respectable distance between him and Meouch. Head in his hands, elbows on his knees, he took a deep breath.

His reasoning made perfect sense to him. An explanation abstractly manifested in his head, one that he understood with utmost clarity, but would be hard to articulate to anyone else. He had no idea where to begin.

Phobos, Meouch, the clone, and even Havve were willing to be at least a little bit patient, waiting silently and awkwardly for him to get the ball rolling. 

“So, y’know how sometimes, uh,” he began, “you’ve got all these things you want to do, but it doesn’t feel like you have enough time to do them because you’re busy, or have more important things to do first?”

Not the most articulate explanation, but it was as good as it was going to get, and Sung looked up to see Meouch and Phobos nodding. Havve seemed nonplussed. Typical. The clone looked… confused but intrigued. 

Identical to Sung in every way, presumably down to the thought patterns, and yet he didn’t know why he existed. 

“Well, uh,” he continued, “y’know how I’m going to live a lot longer than you probably will, and-- and how every day this planet deteriorates a little bit more, spiraling further and further into chaos, with the future getting constantly more bleak and all hopes of turning everything around steadily dwindling?” He looked to his bandmates, expecting more nodding, but was instead met with concerned stares.

“That’s quite the grim outlook, bud,” Meouch finally spoke up. “Not really like you at all.”

“You got me there, but it’s kinda hard to not have a grim outlook when you have a long, long list of things you want to do and see and create, places you want to go, people you want to meet, and it’s all slipping by. There’s not enough time for everything.”

“So you thought more of you-- us-- you know… We could check things off the to-do list,” the clone finished. 

“ _Sung, you do realize that this just means you get to experience less of the things you actually want to do if you just send out copies of yourself everywhere. Where will it end, if not with mundane tasks? Will you send a copy of yourself on tours with us so you can stay here and contemplate your own existence?_ ” Unusually harsh words, coming from Phobos, but he felt like it was what the Doctor needed to hear.

In order to hear it, though, he had to be willing to listen, and right now it did not seem like he was. Instead, Phobos could see the telltale signs of Sung getting ready to go into a sulk. He was quiet, now sitting up, with his hands folded in his lap, staring blankly at them. 

From across the room, the clone softly asked, “Now what?” He had been sitting back, watching, listening, feeling like it wasn’t his place to respond, but with the original Sung becoming unresponsive, someone had to take over.

“WE CLEAN UP THE DOCTOR’S MESS, OBVIOUSLY.”

“Find the other clones, drag them all back here, figure out what to do with them, sounds like a plan,” Meouch counted off each task on his fingers. “There’s four more of them running around, right? Hogan, you can go get one, so can you, Phobos, and I’ll track down the other two. Uh, Jeffery,” he turned to the clone, “you can stay here with the Doc. Make sure he doesn’t crank out any more of you.”


End file.
